April 29, 2010: Dunstable to Upper Sundon

After many delays the 2010 walking season was about to begin. Of course I blame the late start on the crowded schedule of my walking partner, Tosh, who could find so few opportunities for some healthful outdoor exercise since our last walk together – fours days on Glyndwr’s Way the previous June. Even today we were flirting with rainfall, for showers were predicted in Bedfordshire, but – with a third Welsh trip scheduled for mid-June – there wasn’t any more time left for us to get in some conditioning walks. In particular I was interested in testing my legs, with left hip problems uppermost among my concerns and the walking stick now in evidence every time I undertook a long country walk – as it was in Sweden, from which I had returned only two days earlier.

At 8:50 on a grey, cloudy morning I met Hanna at the Grantully entrance to the Rec and handed her the lead of my Fritz. It was a surprise to enter a jam-packed underground carriage at Maida Vale ­– since I don’t usually travel at this hour and (after failing once to find the right roadway to the next platform within Baker Street) things were just as crowded in the next car as well. A young Asian woman in a headscarf offered me a seat here (the cane always giving others a clue) but I declined – though I was happy to see another old chap being offered the same courtesy by another passenger. There were a number of delays on this journey as there had been on the Bakerloo Line, where we had been entertained by the non-step commentary of our driver, who, in a stream-of-consciousness Irish brogue, kept us up to date on every signal and door closure.

I stepped from my train at the Kings Cross-St. Pancras stop and tapped my way through the long hallways of the latter, finding Tosh (drinking a coffee and eating a bun) waiting for me at the domestic ticket window. I used both my Freedom and my Senior Rail Passes to purchase returns to Harlington but Tosh, when her moment came, discovered that her pass had expired and she now set out to remedy this, with five minutes at the window as this complicated negotiation took place – and we missed a train. Not to worry, for there is a lot of traffic heading north and at 9:46 we were off. At about 10:30 we left the train at Luton and filtered outside in search of a taxi.

A line of cabs was soon located and we climbed in the first of these; the Asian driver needed my map to work out the location we were heading for in Dunstable but soon we were on our way west. It seemed to take a long time but at last we passed The Pheasant, the pub where we welcomed by local lasses so splendidly the previous year, and thus we reached our corner, the junction of the B4541 and the B489. Tosh took exception when our driver failed to open the back door for us, but after she had paid up we crossed the street and sat down on the grass at the foot of the long slope descending from Dunstable Downs, a spot where we had last left the Chiltern Way.

I spent some time arranging the pages (original and xeroxed) from Moon’s guide in my plastic map case and at 10:50 we were ready to move off. This required us to use a pedestrian crossing over the B489 and for me to consult the map immediately – since I couldn’t figure out at first whether we were to turn right or left as, in so many other moments on this route, minor variations since the guidebook had been written caused occasional puzzles. To our right we soon found a pleasant, level gravel track leading though well-disguised housing estates and it was at last possible for us to turn our backs on civilization and follow the green lane in a northwesterly direction. It was still deeply overcast but temperatures were mild enough.

Visibility was good at this moment and, in spite of the lack of sunshine, it was obvious that we were walking through a countryside of great springtime charm; wildflowers were in bloom at our feet (no bluebells yet), trees were in blossom in the hedgerows and the distant hills were a mixture of chalk quarries, yellow rape and deep green grass. Singing birdlife was abundant: the magpies evident at our feet and the larks unseen in the skies. We met a number of locals out with their dogs as we continued forward, hunting for a right turn some 250 yards after the hedge on our right came to an end. I thought I had the correct spot but, unfortunately, the telltale directional badge had been nailed to an uprooted post and this could hardly be used with any certainty. I stopped to study my maps and while I was doing this a large group of walkers came up behind us and turned onto the path I had selected.

Tosh began to fret that this group of senior ramblers would no doubt beat us to our first pub and we’d never get served but, after we had all followed our route and a hedge to the left, these people abandoned the CW for an examination of the ruins of Maiden Bower, an Iron Age fort on our left. Here we also met the first of a number of women on horseback. Soon we began a descent, dropping down to the line of an old railway and turning right under a bridge to enter the hamlet of Sewell. Just as we did so I felt the first of the drops falling from on high. As we passed a number of charming cottages I tried to hide under the overhanging bushes, contemplating the donning of my rain jacket – with a reluctant Tosh saying this would make me too hot.

We escaped the roads of Sewell to cross a stile into a foliage-choked passage behind fences – the smooth surfaces of our start giving way to the more usual ups and downs and ins and outs of a typical countryside route. An open field now beckoned, with some discussion of whether the tree we were heading for on the opposite side was the advertised sycamore. It was. Here we turned left in a belt of trees, reaching a footbridge and a field. As we turned to our right, with hedges still on our right, we could see the tall embankment of the A-5, even catching sight of the occasional lorry roaring by. When we reached the embankment itself we were directed uphill to the right, eventually entering woodland and climbing a steep flight of stairs up to the highway itself.

We had covered two and a half miles, it was 12:00 exactly and on our right was a beckoning pub in Chalk Hill. Another was to come in less than an hour but I argued that if it were not serving food then we would very much regret a lost opportunity. So we edged our way along the side of the highway, past a call box and a petrol station, and entered the precincts of the White Lion. This restaurant-centered establishment had obviously taken over from the missing Chalk Hill Inn and it was obviously in the process of a trendy makeover, with the painter adding his odors to the mix as we sat down in a front window.

Tosh had a chicken Caesar salad and I the fish and chips. I drank only diet colas today but here Tosh had her usual pint of bitter shandy (or two halves, as the waitress got the order wrong the first time). Indeed Mrs. Lee took against the décor of the establishment, no doubt missing the grotty atmosphere of a real local My food was fine and we spent a pleasant enough hour, as a few more customers came in for lunch at last. Tosh said she was going to vote for Labour in next week’s general election and much of the day was spent in rueful commentary on political developments on both sides of the Atlantic. After using the scented soap in the toilets we paid up and made our departure under skies that seemed to darken with every step.

Gingerly we dashed across the A5 and down some steps. At a cottage in the shadows of the A5 embankment we turned right to begin a long stretch in a northeasterly direction. A hedge on our left kept us company for some time as passed a sewage works and reached the corner of a wood. Our route was soon enclosed in foliage, though the direction had not changed and we continued forward until we had reached a concrete track. Here we turned left and crossed a stile to an open field where the left-hand end of a distant hedge served as the next landmark. There was a little ambiguity about where to go here but I discovered that if we made a sharp right (leaving our occasional companionship with the Icknield Way) and kept the hedge on our left, we could soon reach another stile. This put us onto a road leading up to the A5120 in Bidwell.

Only 1.1 miles had been accomplished since the last pub but once again we squeezed along the nearby verge to reach a second drinking establishment, the Old Red Lion. Tosh wanted to use the loo here and she never does this without ordering a drink in gratitude and so, when she returned for the pub’s interior (crowded with diners, she reported), she brought us both Diet Pepsis. We had a few sips while sitting at an outdoor table and after only a short pause continued in a southeasterly direction until it was time to make another dash across the highway to continue on our journey toward the next village, Chalton.

A kissing gate ushered us back to the countryside but how we were to continue was now a bit of a puzzle. The text suggested that we had to bear half-left over a rise but with no obvious landmark to aim for our progress would be a triumph of hope over experience. The ploughed surface of the field made our ascent less than happy but when we reached the top of the rise I could see at last a fence corner that seemed to be in the right place. I had now added a compass to my route-finding arsenal and this confirmed that we were on our way north, with a fence on our left. There was one problem, however, for as we marched along it was no longer possible to ignore the steady rain pelting down.

It was now necessary for us to throw ourselves down on the grass and wrestle into our rain gear, top and bottoms. In my case the bottoms proved, as they often do, problematic – with their long leg zippers easy to get on but far too lengthy for comfort once donned. The cuffs kept trailing in the mud and, unless I managed to roll the waist up as well, the trousers acted as a great drag on my waist, making extra strain for my tiring legs.

Furthermore, rain-assisted adjustments to the xeroxed map pages in my map case soon lead the printouts to turn into a sodden mess, with ink covering my hands whenever I had to turn a page. At least this disguised the scratch I had just gotten on my right hand from a bramble.

We continued in our northerly direction for some time, crossing a footbridge and, with trees on our right, heading off in a northeasterly direction. A series of fields had to be traversed along their right-hand margin but a route-finding problem occurred when the main track turned to the left. There was a footpath marker (not a CW one) suggesting a continuation of our direction but we decided to follow the main path since it did offer a direction that I knew we had to head next and the sight of a power line that we had to cross. We marched for five minutes, reaching a road, but, though I could see a farmyard on our right, there was no footpath sign whatsoever and I realized that we would have to retrace our steps. This was one of those moments where pulling out the OS map in my backpack would have been a useful gesture but I was reluctant to do this in the rain.

We returned to the dubious parting of the ways and followed our original direction. It wasn’t long before we made the desired left-hand turn (a much smaller power line proving to be the one sought for), soon finding our way onto the pavements of Grove Farm. (This had been the farm I had spotted ten minutes earlier; we could have walked through the farm to reach this point without all the backtracking.) Now we continued on to Grove Spinney, turning right and climbing along green lanes, moving this time on an easterly line in open territory and persisting for almost three quarters of a mile as the rain lessened in intensity. Eventually we left the lane to head north, with the tallest house in the village of Chalton serving as our waymark.

Soon we were walking along the tulip-bedecked streets of suburbia but many changes had taken place here since the writing of the guidebook and after turning left opposite a bungalow called Drumlin we were soon floundering along on an improvised route in undergrowth between cyclone fences. Our reward for this stretch of 2.8 miles (well you can add half a mile for extra wandering about) was to be an encounter with the village pub, the Star ­– but as we at last emerged from our back alleys we were greeted by an unhappy sight. The Star was in the throes of conversion and wouldn’t be open for another week or so. As I studied where to go next Tosh and I had to content ourselves with a drag on the canteen in the parking lot of the pub.

I determined that we needed to exit the parking lot by a kissing gate and continue forward to a line of trees. Here we were supposed to keep to the right of the trees, though the path headed straight into them. Tosh tried the left side and then wandered off far to the right, soon heading in an easterly direction when I knew that we needed to be moving north-west. We had entered one of those depressing final stages when what should have been a cruise to the finish line turns out to be the stinging tail of an adventure.

We backtracked, I picked up the original path, and soon located an anticipated footbridge. Pressing forward we found a farm road and followed it to the right. It led us across the roaring M1 itself but ahead of us was a daunting sight. Moon had suggested that Railtrack had plans for a pedestrian bridge over our St. Pancras line here, and this had now been realized – for instead of a nice level crossing we were faced with a structure with dozens of steps up, over, and down the line. On the other side there would also be a problem with changes to the route since we were not coming from the original crossing – but I spotted a gap in a line of poplar trees and we headed here, at last encountering a Chiltern Way sign.

Now I sent Tosh across a field, telling her to aim to the right of an electricity pylon, as I hung back for a quiet pee – a gesture that requires the lowering of the troublesome rain pants first. The field in question was a sore trial, loose damp earth with only the faintest suggestion of a trod. I could see Tosh fighting her way over to a grassy hillside where footing was easier and I followed her. At the end of the field she sat down to scrape mud from her boots with a piece of flint. I too needed a sit-down rest.

There were a number of routes available as we moved into wooded territory to the northeast but the advice that we needed to walk beneath a power line was not so useful since there were lines everywhere. We disdained a route that would have lead us into a chalk quarry and continued on our original path (with a small power line above us, after all). There was a lengthy stretch of uphill but eventually we left the track behind and continued forward on a more level footing – until directed to make a steep ascent into an old chalk pit (on open steps) and then back up out of it on more stairs (though at least here there was a rail).

At the top we encountered tarmac and a lot of locals out with their dogs but we decided not to cross another wet field but to cheat a bit by using the roadway to reach Church Road, an outpost of the widespread village of Upper Sundon, our ultimate destination. Our mud-caked boots thus escaped a final adhesive layering but we were soon floundering around in suburban cul-de-sacs hunting for CW signposts. We found one that pointed to a crossing of a recreation ground but at a corner we made a final mistake, for instead of turning left toward the Red Lion we were seduced by the sight of a village pub below us (and by a pond) and headed here. I was most puzzled to see that the pub was called The White Hart (and not the Red Lion) but inquiries revealed that this was the spot we needed today – since the Red Lion and another village pub had both called last orders and this one was the only survivor. It was 5:10 and we had walked eight and half miles – it seemed like a lot more.

The scene was quite lively, with lots little kids about, but we found a table in front of the ladies loo and had another Diet Coke. I pulled out my mobile phone and called Britannia Taxis in nearby Harlington, soon receiving the promise of a cab in five minutes. The ride was much shorter this time but Tosh still objected to the way the Asian driver offered no assistance to his bone-weary passengers when it came to opening the doors of his people carrier.

We had only a ten-minute wait, hiding from the last drops in a shelter trackside and chatting with an English girl who wanted to know if we were holidaying here. More and more people got on the train as we sped south, at last reaching St. Pancras at about 6:30. I was very stiff as I made my way through the station on my long walk to the Metropolitan Line. When I got back to Maida Vale it took me a while to track down the whereabouts of my dog and I even had to go outside again to pick him up. I had a stiff drink and went to bed at 9:00. Two days later, my legs pretty well recovered, I attempted to clean the muck off my boots. The mud contained sticks and stones and my garbage disposal was not at all happy about such material.

To continue with our next stage you need:

Day 14: Upper Sundon to Lilley